Connections
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: The ship has crashed, the crew is dead and Jim will give anything to take it all back.
1. Dead

**_Connections_**

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating:** T or PG13 for descriptive gore and mild horror

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. If I did, this would not be posted under fan fiction.

**Warnings:** Horror (mild), Surrealism, Gore, Influences of Kafka, Faulkner, Poe and the Zombie Survival Guide

**Author's Note:** I am working on a couple of other stories, one a semi-sequel to _**Shrinking the Gap**_ and another with Kirk/McCoy friendship. I do not know how quickly they'll be finished, if at all. Until then, enjoy this bit of weirdness. I apologize for all mistakes.

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Chapter One: Dead

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The gore and wreckage of the once beautiful ship enveloped his vision and swam over him in waves. The glass face of the bridge had been crushed in, sending sharp and deadly shards flying at everyone present in the room. The metal facing around it had crumbled in and up, some of it tearing apart and latching onto other parts of the room. Delicate control panels and viewing screens had shredded in the assault, leaving nothing behind but limp and sad wires with tiny buttons dangling from them. The ceiling of the place had caved in under the pressure of the rest of the ship, flattening out like a tin can under a shoe. Chairs were splayed all over the place, adding to the debris and his own chair sat at the top of it all, mostly untouched, holding him upright.

He recognized the presence of human remains about him as well. To his left, an ensign who's name he had forgotten was lying pinned beneath a piece of equipment. His stomach had been split open and part of his innards were dripping out onto the floor into a puddle of blood. What was worse were the people he knew lying about the place, flung from their seats and where they were standing to land in awkward heaps on the ground. Sulu looked like he could be sleeping with the exception of how his neck was angled. He lay prone right near the destroyed front of the bridge, sprawled on the ground of the planet that had ended them. Near him was Uhura, her ponytail limp and ragged and her lower half crushed by a piece of the ceiling. Chekov had a piece of glass imbedded in his neck and clearly had bled out. His eyes stared glassily at the rest of the room.

He had no strength to move from his throne above it all, his arms lifeless and his legs equally useless. Even moving his eyes was a constant struggle and he soon gave up on it all. Nothing changed no matter where he looked; his crew was dead, his beloved ship destroyed and he was going to live out his last moments in this world having to watch. Some people called it karma; he called it shitty luck that his neck hadn't snapped on impact. He wished it could have happened, that he could have gone out with a piece of glass shoved through his neck or a chunk of the ceiling crushing him instead of having to spend what little time he had left seeing what his poor decision had wrought upon everyone he knew.

He couldn't even remember what that choice had been or where they'd been going or why they had crashed. The only thing that stuck with him was the overwhelming guilt and knowledge that everything that lay before him was his doing. His last decision, made in pride, had put him as king of his dead world. The decision had not intentionally led to this; that did not comfort but it was a truth. But this had always been a possibility, lurking in the background like a deadly animal . Had he thought it through instead of acting in blind hope, he would have seen the possible price and noted it as too high. Someone had once warned him against being rash; why had he not listened?

Listlessly, he waited for death to take him. It could not be far away; if he was half as bad off as the others, he had minutes at most before he succumbed to eternal rest. He wondered if he would start to feel pain soon from the injuries he'd suffered. If he did, he deserved it. If he continued on for more than the predicted time set, he deserved it. He deserved so much more than just physical suffering as punishment--

He sat up then, suddenly, without warrant and blinked around the ruins of his precious friends and ship, wondering who's thoughts those had been. They had not been his; no, he was a fighter and whoever thought this, believed themselves to be a martyr. He blinked again at the people around him and watched them flutter out of existence for a moment. Pulling himself to his feet, he carefully stepped around the dead ensign, feeling his left knee twist in a strange manner but not hurt. His opposite foot squished as though it tread on water, looking strangely misshapen inside his boot. His left arm would not move at all, no matter what he did while his right very clearly had a bone sticking out of it. His head had a hard time staying straight up, his neck trembling weakly on his shoulders. More injuries covered him, injuries he should not have survived much less been moving with, and yet, none of it hurt. A part of him, distanced from the him that was conscious, thought that just seeing this should sicken him but he felt nothing except the creeping idea that he deserved it and he determinedly pushed that back.

It was time to take action. As Captain, he needed to discover who, if anyone, was still alive and from there, try to contact Starfleet so that they could send someone out to provide medical support and transportation. No one in this room appeared to still breathe but he hobbled amongst them all, just in case, taking in glazed eyes and grey skin. Confirmation nearly sent him tail spinning into self-doubt and recrimination once more but he caught himself midway and pulled out of it. Not the time, he had to remind himself again, not the time for this. There were still many, many areas to search and not an easy way to do so. Who knew how long he had before his body realized that it should give up? He could not take the chance.

After his unsuccessful quest to locate someone alive, he attempted to find a way to the next deck of the ship only to discover himself boxed in. His only option lay out a small hole, not blocked by debris, where the glass had shattered. He gimped over and used his broken but movable arm to maneuver his body through. It was not as easy has he'd expected. Not because he grew tired or ill or dizzy-- though he would have felt more comfortable with everything if he had-- but because his body would not move the way he wanted it to. He had to keep stopping to rebalance and force his limbs to behave. Eventually, he was half-way through and paused to stare out over the twilight dappled terrain.

The best description would be a graveyard but not just for bodies; everything that had been created decayed before him in mass-- houses, cars, trees. Skeletons of everything he'd ever seen lay before him in the blue grey world, not touching each other, all in various stages of disintegration. Simple things, complicated things, organic, non-organic; he'd never seen so many different things in one place in his whole life and he doubted he would ever do so again-- even if his life hadn't been dramatically shortened by traumatic injury. He stayed where he was, taking it in the vast expanse of things in a distanced way. Then he slipped down to the ground, catching himself on the side of the ship when his foot twisted underneath him with a sloppy crunch.

He needed something to support his weight on now. The foot that had been squelching originally was now completely unable to carry him. He crawled along the side of the ship, trying to stay upright on four wounded limbs. His good leg-- if it could be called that-- twisted underneath him, throwing him to the ground. For a moment, he lay there, trying to figure out how his broken body could support his weight. Five minutes passed, then ten. Sudden lethargy overwhelmed him followed by the unforgivable urge to give in to despair. His body could not take him, his crew was dead, his ship destroyed; what was there to do but to wait until his body melted--

He shoved himself up with his broken arm, then intentionally smacked it against the hull of the vessel. Distantly, he thought he could feel a twinge beyond the numbness that had overtaken him. At the very least, it helped him shove away the dark feelings and get the energy to keep going. He focused on his plan and then included motion. Reaching around him, he grasped a thin metal rod. It had not come from the _Enterprise_, but it had not succumbed to rust. He could use it as a crutch. Pawing about in the surprisingly soft ground, he found a shorter piece of material, resembling wood. A long string was his next acquisition and using the two of them, he braced his foot to the best of his ability. The foot, no longer a foot really but instead, a shoe full of blood and flesh and pulverized bone, seemed to be willing to support him again. This did not stop him from testing it briefly before he levered himself up using the metal rod. When he was upright again, he clung to the crutch with one arm.

He journeyed around, looking for a way into the destroyed vehicle but finding only large cracks and shattered chunks. The few entry points he initially discovered were too far up for him to consider plausible. He was becoming increasingly aware of his body's limitations as he trekked along and it was a new sort of experience. Usually, he equated physical limitation to lack of endurance and strength; here, he never ran out of breath but he also could not tell how well his body could support his needs. Things did not hurt or feel as they normally did and he had to depend fully on his visual perception and consequences to understand what he was capable of.

He reached the end of ship and began circling around it when he found a place where he thought he could squeeze through. It wasn't terribly wide, less than a foot with rough edges, but it would do for the moment. Shoving his walking staff in first, he used it to lever himself through, feeling the tug of the jagged entrance as he slipped in. Something on his chest caught and when he finally was in, he noted that he'd not only lost a section of his shirt, but a strip of skin as well. It did not bleed, but stood out red and glistening in the continuing dimness of the place. He clung to the rod with the crook of his elbow so he could touch it, trying to see if it was blood. His fingers came away damp but still it did not run. He wondered if he was actually dead but his mind had yet to realize it yet. Better, something said, to just lie down and allow his poor, battered brain to shut down and rest. What did it matter to continue? No one else was still alive, the ship's communications were clearly not working--

He jerked his head and his neck creaked ominously. Holding his head up became considerably more difficult. Going forward with as much vigor as he could muster, he navigated the wrecked hallway. He twisted through the hallways, stepped over bodies and tried to determine where he was. The problem was everything looked the same after a crash unless the room had distinctive aspects. He paused again, trying to get his bearings when he became aware of a sound coming from a room a little ways ahead. It sounded like something moving the debris around. Hopeful, he moved to the doorway and squeezed through the opening that was blocked by a shifted table. His limp arm tore as he went through and he knew he should have been nauseated by the sight of a mostly severed finger. It was dulled though, like all his emotions, not worth noting. What currently mattered was seeing who or what was moving.

It was definitely a person. Before he could even call out, the person swung around, phaser drawn, prepared to fire. Unlike Kirk, he moved easily, gracefully, and his stance was firm. His body clearly had withstood the crash better than Kirk's and most of the crew. He had gashes like everyone else, his uniform torn and ragged, but his limbs were not bent in strange angles and Kirk could not see any splintered bone.

"Captain," Spock said, lowering his weapon. His eyes widened. "Jim?"

"Spock…" he croaked. "S'good to see you moving."

Spock reached him faster than he thought possible. "You should sit down."

"Nah," he managed. He had to work to make sounds. "I have a hard time getting up and I get really weird thoughts."

"Jim, please, you need to sit down," Spock insisted, taking away his crutch and grabbing him by the upper arm.

Kirk pulled away from him, stepping back. His foot made an unpleasant sound. "No, seriously, no. I know I look bad but--"

Then Spock turned and he lost his train of thought. He could see the Vulcan's brain, shiny in the dim light with green blood. The entire back of his head was smashed in, bits of skull dripping down the back of his neck and clinging in bits to scraps of skin. His hair around the injury, what was left of it, was sticking up in unnatural angles, with flecks of tissue wrapped in it. Kirk knew that all of this should sicken him and yet, all it did was increase the feeling of inadequacy. Spock had him by his arm again, and this time, he did sit on a piece of overturned equipment.

"Your head--" he began.

"Hold still," Spock commanded, as he looked at the bone sticking out of Kirk's arm. Next, he looked at the unstable knee and the foot that wasn't a foot any longer. "How are you even walking, Captain?"

"I could say the same for you," Kirk replied, depression dragging at his psyche. "Your head--"

"Does not affect my ability to walk," Spock interrupted, "even if the injury is severe. You need to stay off your feet until I can do something for your wounds."

"I don't think it matters," Kirk said, as his friend examined his neck. "Spock, I think," he found it difficult to speak, "I think I may be dead."

If it shocked the Vulcan, Kirk could not see it. He'd gotten much better at reading the Vulcan's subtle facial changes as he had spent more time with him and he knew that if Spock felt any surprise, he'd have noticed it. But all he could see in his friend was concern and determination. He has a plan, the voice in his head said. He thinks things through. He did not make rash decisions which led to injuries, perilous situations and death. Spock should have been--

"Jim?" Spock gave him a gentle shake, causing his head to wobble unsteadily on his shoulders. "Do not sleep."

"I wasn't," he said. "I-- do you feel the strangeness here?"

"Strangeness?" Spock queried. "Captain, you claim to be a walking corpse and judging by the state of your body, I am inclined to believe you. I, in turn, have a traumatic brain injury and yet, feel nothing. You must be more specific in your questions."

He didn't know how to describe the oppression to someone who purposefully redirected emotion all the time. Spock's controlled and repressed feelings would make it near impossible for him to understand the extent of oddness Kirk was suffering from. The vague nothingness compacted with the lethargic, jaded self-loathing was beyond his understanding. He doubted any of the words he had could fully describe it to another regular person, much less a half-Vulcan. This did not stop him from trying.

"Do you keep getting the creepy sense that we should just lay down and give up?" he asked. "Depressive thoughts? Anything?"

Spock shook his head and a chunk of skull dropped down to the ground. Kirk tracked it with his eyes, and stared at the shiny green and white juxtaposed against the grayish ground. He wondered if Spock even knew that he had shed a piece of himself or if the Vulcan was completely unaware of his plight. He knew Spock realized the injury was present. Did he know that he would lose his brain if he shook his head like that again?

"Jim," another gentle shake brought him back, "Jim?"

"Spock," he answered. "We need to keep moving."

Spock was squatting before him, his hands at his sides. There was a peculiar, minute expression on his face. "Not until we tend your injuries." He stood. "Stay here while I find something to brace your knee."

That's when Kirk knew he couldn't be real. He blinked once, then twice and the third time, Spock had vanished from the room. The real Spock would not have left him by himself on a strange planet after a crash. He would have made due with what he had to tend the injuries or, if he had nothing to make due with, he would have brought Kirk with him. Whoever or whatever that was, it was part of the problem, not the solution. It was encouraging him to give in to the strangeness, to become part of the planet of death, and that was not what he wanted.

He needed his crutch. The imaginary Spock-- or the thing that pretended to be Spock-- had left it on the ground, just out of his reach. Scooting forward slightly, he leaned over and made a snatch for the staff. His body, much abused, overbalanced immediately and his broken arm snapped again when he attempted to catch himself. He hit the ground hard, his head bouncing against the ground, his neck making a disgusting sound. Something had jabbed his stomach, but he could not tell how deep it had gone. He could not move anymore, his one arm useless and the other broken beyond repair. All he could do was lay there and give in. This was not merely the dark urge that had been haunting him from the beginning but also, an undeniable truth. He closed his eyes.

And opened them in the Captain's chair again, slouched to the side, his head resting on his shoulder at an impossible angle. Everything was the same as when he'd left from the crumbling walls to the dead crewmates. The only differences were how he was positioned and the severity of his injuries. The thing that had jabbed him in his midriff stuck out of him, wires dangling from it like a flag. His broken arm drooped limply when he moved it, only held together by skin and muscle. He could not get his head to sit up on his shoulders anymore.

"You are very strange," someone said. He did not see them but he knew that this someone was the same someone who'd pretended to be Spock.

"S'not the first time someone's said that to me," he mumbled. His tongue garbled the words. His top lip flopped against his bottom, torn away.

There was shimmering in front of him. "Why did you not fall into stasis like everyone else?"

He tried to shrug but couldn't so he spoke instead. "Just lucky that way, I guess."

"I do not think so," it replied. "Luck has nothing to do with it. Why is it you will not give in?"

"Because, I'm the Captain. S'my job to keep going until I can't."

It solidified a little, looking like everyone and no one all at once. There was no gender, no real shape, no color; it just was and it sat and stood all at once, using its arms to gesticulate and yet having no arms to do so. Its lips, all shapes and all sizes, twisted. "But you can't now."

He agreed. "Yeah, having a hard time moving."

"Then why have you not fallen into stasis?" It's voice was a child's and yet a scolding adult's and a best friend's. It's eyes were gentle and harsh and curious and understanding. "You should be in stasis."

"I don't know-- maybe it's because I'm dead?" he offered.

"Everyone here has perished," it told him. It came closer, and it wore no clothes and all clothes. "You perished long before you tried to move. Tell me why you still resist."

"Just… not who I am, I guess." It felt like a fake answer, or a non-answer but the creature took it to heart. It backed away and came closer and then disappeared and came back. Kirk became aware that it was everywhere and yet nowhere and felt vaguely disconcerted. "Gotta save my crew."

It solidified into the nameless ensign, still dead near him. "But you are too late. They are all dead. Does the Captain not go down with his ship?"

"He does-- but he makes sure that everyone who can gets off first," he replied. His mouth was dry and he could not moisten it. "What do you want from me?"

"Answers," it said. "Or stasis. Either would be satisfactory."

He could not give in and he could not give answers. He also could not speak. His broken neck and twisted tongue refused to produce sounds. He simply slumped and let his tongue flap dryly against the roof of his mouth. The thing waited-- watching but not watching, patient and impatient, in existence and not. Waves of failure tried to overwhelm him while they had their silent stand off but he backed them away. Somehow, he would find a way to get this ship home and the bodies returned to those who had loved them. He wasn't sure how it would happen but it would.

"You confuse me," it said after a while. "I do not understand your perseverance or optimism." It paused. "I would like answers and yet, you are unable to give. Would you, for the sake of us both, simply allow for stasis to occur? Then I can take the answers from you. My inquisitive nature will be satiated and you will be able to rest. Would you not like rest?"

No, he thought fiercely. The emptiness was now completely shoved into the furthest corner of his being. Wherever they were, he would not allow this to be their eternal resting place. He tried to force this out but could not.

"Could I offer you something for it? I haven't much to give. I am a collector of things but most of them have been consumed by time," the thing continued. "When I saw your ship coming so close, I wanted it. I made it crash and that sorrows me, but now I have it. If I wanted, I could make it whole again but then it might try to leave me. Then all would have been for naught. With the knowledge of my power, tell me what I can give you. The trade would be your compliance in answering my questions. I wish to explore your mind." When he did not speak, it did not understand. "Can I give you nothing?" He could not motion to his mouth or make sounds. He tried to make it clear with eye movements and failed. Then suddenly, his mouth was wet again. "I apologize, I forgot your death would affect your speech."

"You'll give me anything I want?" he asked, voice cracking. "Anything at all?"

It came closer but was everywhere anyway. "Anything."

"And I have to just give in to everything?"

"That is all. It will not hurt. I never let it hurt."

The answer, to him, was obvious. "Then I want you to fix the _Enterprise_, and everyone on it. I want you to let them leave."

"That I cannot give," it said. "I will not give. It would negate everything I have done to begin with which would make this conversation pointless. Ask for something else."

"That is what I want. I want them to live."

"I see," it said, and then it became his mother. It paced about the ship but stayed in the same place and turned to him and away from him. Time passed by as it moved but did not move until finally it spoke again. "I think I understand you, now."

"Takes a lot to understand me," he snipped. His mouth was drying out again.

"Agreed. I like you, I think. I like you better than the ship," it was small, a child of a race he did not know. "I think I can let the ship go, if I can keep you."

"If that means the crew will be alive and safe with it. Show me it and we've got a deal," he replied.

It smiled and frowned and stayed blank. Strangely immaterial hands reached out and touched his face. "You will be a fun thing to have-- will you give in?"

He did.

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The next chapter will be up on Saturday


	2. Alive

Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews. Before I post a story, I make sure it is completely written in order to avoid the tragedy of not finishing it. I post in two day intervals in order to give myself time to edit and update chapters as I see fit. It makes sense that with this story, initially two chapters and an epilogue, I would be finished. And I was. The epilogue was started-- the problem was, it didn't stop where I thought it would. It has bridged into a third chapter on its own with an epilogue hopefully following it. So, I apologize to everyone here and now-- the next update will probably take longer. Again, this is unbetad, so be kind. Most of all, enjoy.

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Chapter Two: Alive

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He jerked awake, a crick in his neck and his head hurting. Again, he sat in the captain's chair as he had before but this time, he was not lording over a world of ruin but instead, the bridge as he knew it. It was relatively quiet, just he, Sulu, Uhura and Spock there for the moment. Uhura and Spock were conversing quietly at the communications terminal and Sulu was staring blankly out into space. An overwhelming mass of emotions flooded him all at once; relief, sadness, sickness, joy rushed over him and he dropped his head to his hands. He hadn't realized how harsh the planet's repression had been until now. The memories of his friends dead, of Spock's bashed in skull, of his own battered body washed over him, combined with scents he had not noticed on the planet-- rotting bodies, metallic tangs of blood, rusty metal-- encouraged his gag reflex. He swallowed, choked and sucked in three deep breaths, letting them out through his nose.

"Captain? Are you well?" Spock's familiar, placid voice asked. Spock with his head in one piece sitting with Uhura, not maimed; the two of them were looking at him, Uhura looking confused and a bit concerned and Spock blank.

"Yeah," he lied. "Yeah. Sorry."

Spock stood. "Are you certain?"

"No, no, I'm okay," he said, sitting up straight but feeling himself break out in a sweat. Sulu had turned to him and looked worried. "Sorry, headache and weird dreams."

"Not a dream," it's voice whispered in his ear. "I have fulfilled my side. It is time you fulfill yours."

Uhura had turned back to the terminal. "He's lying. I'm calling the sick bay."

The coldness washed over him again but this time, it felt different. There was no distance or unnatural strength; simply the sudden descent of injury and lifelessness. He felt everything crumble away from him, felt his body slouch over and then out of the chair but could do nothing to control it. Like wax, the scene melted away, even as Spock caught him before he hit the ground. No longer could he hear their voices, or feel their touches, or even see them as he was used to perceiving sight. The situation was distanced from him, a pinprick of light in a tunnel, unimportant and lost amidst the universe. It held him close with dark and childish delight, hands on him and away from him. Then, it reached towards his mind, pulled away from his mind, and combined with it.

It screamed, he screamed and it jumped away from him. Something, he did not know what, tore a chunk out of it and forced it to back away from him. It was loud, silent, screaming, laughing, cringing and flailing, trying to tear at him but failing, sometimes succeeding. Whatever had driven it away gently pulled him back, firm and unchanging, tenderly attempting to stop the pain but failing. It was still too close and it was not defeated. It howled, whispered, charged, held back and whatever was shielding him, pulled him closer.

"You cannot break your promise to me," it spoke but didn't use language.

He tried to reply but his voice was as useless as it had been when he was dead. The thing keeping him grounded responded instead. "What are you?"

"I am all and nothing and I wish my payment," it boomed and whispered. "He promised me and he will fulfill his promise."

"I am unaware of any deal the Captain has made," the other said. "And if it requires his departure, I will need to be briefed. As you can sense, he has also a connection with me and that cannot be broken lightly."

He did not recall making any other bonds or deals with any other immaterial beings. The closest he had come to this was offering his soul in exchange for a hot meal, and that had been to a bar owner he knew well on Earth. He had never believed in a God or promised himself to God's adversary. He had not even attended church of any kind, nor, in a drunken haze, participated in strange, pagan rituals. The visits he had made to other planets with his teammates had never involved him religious ceremonies. His dreams usually could be explained by his food, his worries and his fears. This, on the planet of death, had been his only interaction with something he did not understand.

Except with the mind-meld; those he had not truly come to grips with either. The first, with Spock Prime, had overwhelmed him, shoved him into a mental tailspin which had him waking in cold sweats, fearing things he'd never experienced. His second, with his Spock, had made those memories distant pictures which he could control and face as an observer instead of a participant. And closely following that, had come a third, to set right the thinness of separation between himself and the Vulcan. The multiple invasions into his psyche had not made it any more obvious, or even, clear to him. It left him with the lingering idea of violation, even with his consent, and the idea of an inescapable, unsolicited, unending bond.

"Answer me," it cried, said, whimpered, requested. The echoes and silence were meant to hurt him but the other protected him. "Why did you hide this? Why did you lie?"

"I didn't," he somehow managed. "I didn't know."

The other soothed. "Do not speak, Jim," and to it, "and I would request you stop forcing his compliance."

"I only ask for what's mine," sweet, gentle, rough, nasty words. "And I will not go until he comes with me."

"Then I will allow for your continued presence elsewhere," the other told it. "But I insist you inhabit a space outside the Captain's mind."

It attacked, retreated, caused him pain, and caused his protector pain. "He gave me this place in trade for the lives of those in this ship and the ship itself."

"And, unfortunately, the Captain tends towards rash judgment and overlooks the necessity to discuss his choices with others," the other said, undeterred by it. "He did not solicit the opinions of those he intended on saving and therefore, gained something he had no right to have and gave something he had no right to give. He belongs not just to himself but also to those he serves and those who serve him. And those who he has rescued have the right to choose life or none. From a logical standpoint, the deal was never valid to begin with."

The other's hold on him felt tenuous suddenly, not because the being had grabbed him back, but because he was slipping. Wherever they were, he could not stay there as they were because he was not on their level. He'd become like a toy, being pulled between the two of them, fought over like dogs fight over a bone and he was not made to withstand that. The other clung to him, he did not cling back. He began to slip through the other's grasp, away from it and the fight and everything. Something peaceful waited for him there; it was not the nothingness he associated with its planet but a restful emptiness that required him simply to be. He had no inclination to fight it.

"I see your logic," it said, but didn't say, spoke words but none. "But I do not agree. He and I made our pact based on his deductions not your form of reasoning."

"Where I come from, logic and reasoning are the only ways to make decisions. Therefore, I refuse to validate your deal and shall not sever my bond with the Captain. If you cannot accept this, I believe we are at an impasse."

"I never reach impasses," it came close as it went farther back. He slipped away only to feel the grip of the other tighten. "I win."

The other did not answer it. Kirk's issue seemed to have finally been realized by the other and the hold on him had redoubled. "The Captain's fading."

"Fading, fading," chanted it like a poetic spell but like plain prose as well. "Fading, fading. So will you. This is what I am. How long can you stay this way?"

The other's hold became painful, severely so. He tried to twist away from it, protesting the treatment that was almost worse than its. It had promised him there would be no pain his existence with it. Would it really be so bad to join the nothingness? Even the empty hollow feeling that it exuded could not be as bad as this agony, endless and building. He struggled, weakly, unable to fight against the iron strength. The other had him too tightly and had not been previously harmed by the turmoil he'd suffered to weaken it as it had him. A sudden jerk would have caused him to scream had he been able to make sound.

"I will have him die again," it threatened, told, cajoled. "I can undo him. You I cannot undo-- I can make poor luck for you, shorten your life, but I cannot affect your overall safety. I promised him safety for his ship and crew, and for it, he belongs to me." It suddenly was close. "You say you want him back, but what are you willing to trade to make it happen?"

"I was taught in the StarFleet that bargaining with terrorists is counterproductive," the other told him. "Therefore, I choose what the Captain would call option c."

Then he lay on the floor of the bridge, producing a low, keening sound. He was curled on his side, his arms around his middle, trying to stop the agony that tore at his every nerve. His face was pressed against someone's knee and a set of hands pushed at his temples. The pain was the worst where the tips of the fingers rested at his forehead, burning on top of the aching and stabbing. He tried to get away from it, cringing away, reaching up to claw the hands but was restrained by someone else. Someone spoke, trying to soothe, but only made things worse.

The too loud swish of the lift made his head explode. He stopped moving, paralyzed by the pain. He barely felt the hands move away from him, or his head shifted onto the ground. The footsteps reverberating through the floor were killing him, step by step by step, shredding what little was left of his sanity. Through half open eyes, he could see standard uniform boots milling around and someone else being loaded onto a stretcher. Then someone knelt next to him, and pried his eyelids open farther. Before he blacked out, he caught the sight of Bones's worried face and a pale hand hanging over the side of the stretcher on its way to the lifts.

He prayed he'd die.

* * *

He was on the farm in Iowa, picking the rocks out of a horse's hooves. They'd never been his favorite animals on the farm-- he'd been kicked one too many times-- but he respected their strength and beauty. Though he rarely did his chores, the one thing he never skipped out on was caring for the horses. It gave him a sense of calm most people he knew associated with meditation and yoga. Taking care of horses took full concentration and yet, provided him with the unconscious, repetitive action that released the tension from his shoulders and freed his worries. Not even working on his motorcycle did that and he loved the machine more than he'd ever love an animal. Moving on to brushing, he carefully moved in slow, repetitive strokes, with the hair.

It was nice out, early in the day-- which was odd, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been up this early-- when the air was warm but not oppressively hot. A breeze drifted lazily by and he caught the scent of warm hay combined with mud and animal. It was familiar, if not pleasant, and relaxed him further. He'd hated his childhood, mostly for his stepfather's temper and his mother's absence, but he'd liked the farm fine. It had plenty of places to hide, plenty of ways to skive off and piss off his step dad. There had been days like this where he could stay out for hours, riding the dusty back roads and only stopping to enjoy the view.

If Starfleet hadn't worked out, he would've come back. Maybe he'd continued his rebellious ways for a while but in the end, he could see himself settling down in a place like this, working in a mechanic shop. He wouldn't work on a farm-- not for a real wage-- but he'd go visit them sometimes, help harvest corn, and ride the occasional horse. He could even see himself getting married if he found the right girl with the right smile and eyes and hair. Sometimes, if he squinted, he could see himself with children, bringing them up right; they wouldn't ever have to have an absent parent or worry about a beating for acting out. His kids would get a normal, happy life.

"This is a different place," the horse said to him as he brushed the knots and dust out of its mane. "I've never seen a place like this."

He shrugged a little. "It's all right. Peaceful. Beautiful. Not perfect but I haven't found a perfect place yet."

"It's part of you," the horse continued, examining its surroundings. "Would you say it helped make you who you are?"

He shrugged again and the horse went silent. He moved to the main part of its body. The horse turned its head to watch. "I would live in a place like this if I could."

"Why don't you then?" he asked it.

"I cannot live nor can I stay with the living," it answered honestly. "That's not what I am. I collect things but they cannot be with me. I can only possess them. Do you understand that?"

"No," he said. "But I can still feel bad for you." He paused. "Have I given in?"

Then it was no longer a horse and they were no longer on the farm but by the cliff where he'd crashed his stepfather's car. It was nothing and everything, like it was good at, and he was in the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd first met Pike. He shuffled along the side, staring down into the abyss and imagining he could still see the twisted remains of the 'classic.' It moved and stayed still as he enjoyed the sun and the wind. After a certain length of time, he could not tell how much, it spoke.

"You have not. He protected you. You cannot join me but that does not mean I cannot visit you."

"I see. Well, no offense, but I'd prefer you didn't make it a regular thing," he told it, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. "You understand?"

He got the impression of a negative, like a headshake or a sound but with neither of those present. "But I think its because we are so different," it added on to this. "I think that's why I like you. Your friend, I can understand on a basic level. You are very, very odd. I wish I could keep you. Maybe I'll find a way someday."

"I won't come quietly."

"I would not want you if you did."

He took in a deep breath. "What did he give you?"

"Nothing, everything," it replied. "Nothing for me but everything for you."

"Cryptic."

"But it is truth."

He stared out over the expansive space, soaking in the land and the peace. It stood, sat, waited, paced beside him. "Gonna keep collecting things?"

"What else could I do?"

"I don't know," he said. "Try to create. To keep life."

"Maybe," and then it was a woman he would marry, with thick, dark ringlets of hair and soft, wide eyes. "But," sinister, innocent, wonderful, terrible, "I rather like what I do better, I think. It's so much easier." It kissed him firmly on the lips. "I will see you again, James T. Kirk."

And he was alone. His motorcycle, the one he'd given to the random station worker when he'd joined Starfleet, the one he'd spent all of his money on for years, the one that he'd spent hours working on until it ran better than when it'd been fresh off the assembly line, was waiting for him when he turned around. He climbed on, started it up and took off down the road. The world sped by him, a blur of browns and greens. Everything was quiet, not silent, but not loud and bustling as he'd become used to over the years. He had missed this without even realizing it; it was a relief to return to it.

He reached the farmhouse again, stopping at the beginning of the drive. From where he sat, he could see into it though subconsciously he knew that this would be impossible in real life. His mother was sitting in there, drinking a coffee and reading a book-- an old style book with pages and paper. His stepfather stood in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables. His lips were moving and Winona nodded vaguely. Eventually, he put the knife down and walked around to her. She looked up at him as he approached and he smiled broadly. Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss on her lips which she returned. When they parted, they were both smiling in a way they'd never smiled when he'd been around. He didn't know quite how that made him feel. He started the bike up again and left. He didn't need to see anymore.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, his head aching and his mouth dry. His first thought was that he'd been imbibing a little too exuberantly the night before and maybe taken a few hits in a fight. The more he became aware, the more he realized that he hurt everywhere, from his feet on up. The dim light burned his pupils so he closed his eyes again. He wanted water, as the dryness reminded him of his time dead, but had very little interest in moving. So, he lay there, achy, eyes closed and wondered where there was. It didn't matter too much to him-- at least now, the pain was not so substantial that he thought it would kill him and he didn't feel the heavy weight of nothing either.

The sounds soon told him it was the sick bay though they did not hurt like sound had before. They washed over him, soothed him, almost put him back into sleep. He drifted through the footsteps and whispered conversations and rustling uniforms. When someone came to check on him, he was half-dreaming about being in his quarters, in bed. Then a hand settled on his shoulder and brought him back. He let his eyes open a bit and squinted up into the familiar face of on Leonard McCoy.

"You with us, Jim?" his friend whispered, almost soft enough that Kirk nearly didn't understand.

"Whacchadoin, Bones?" he mumbled, feeling his lips crack. But they bled as they did so he didn't mind.

McCoy shook his head. "Looking down at the biggest pain in my ass since my ex-wife." It was affectionately said and he could tell McCoy was relieved about something. "How do you feel?"

"Muzzy," he admitted. "Thirsty."

McCoy grabbed a cup of water from the bedside and soon he was sitting up, taking tiny sips from it. Through the haze that was his brain, he could see McCoy was exhausted. Dark bags had settled under his eyes and his skin had gotten a grayish tinge. His uniform was a bit wrinkled and even his usual scruffiness seemed too much. Bones placed the cup down again.

"How is the pain?"

He shrugged and groaned at the tension there. Bones raised an eyebrow. "S'not bad, s'just sore. Y'look shitty, though. Sleep much?"

"Not since I met you," McCoy snipped. "Spend too much time cleaning up after the great misadventures of James Tiberius Kirk." He must've fallen asleep because when he looked up again, McCoy was gone. The next few days passed such as this, brief moments of awareness spliced with seemingly brief moments of unconsciousness. By the time he was able to realize that he was about to fall asleep, he was spending most of the day awake anyway; bored as hell but strangely grateful for the control he'd been allotted. Every time McCoy came by-- he had realized that most of his checkups were being done personally-- he'd inquire as to when he'd be released and be given a noncommittal answer and sometimes, a sedative.

The day he was plotting an escape attempt, he got a visitor finally. His world had been devoid of contact, though Bones had insisted there had been quite a few people there for the first few days, and he nearly fell off the bed when the almost silent presence came. Luckily, the same presence was quick and caught him half-way off and helped him settle back. He cringed a bit as he sat back on the cot, annoyed by both his surprise and his body's weakness.

"I see you are, in fact, fully functioning as Doctor McCoy has assured me," Spock said to him which was the closest he would probably get to a 'good to see you're getting better.' "There was a period when your death seemed imminent."

He tossed his legs over the side of the bed again, not allowing his first mate's sudden appearance to stop his decision to leave. "Nice to see you looking good, too. Bones said you did a mind-meld and screwed yourself up. Everything in order?"

"Certainly, I would not take over command for you if I was somehow incapacitated," Spock said, watching him like a hawk as he tried to stand. "The injury I suffered was mild."

"Good to hear," he panted, locking his knees as his feet touched the ground. "Thought you might have died as you didn't drop by." He didn't begrudge Spock that. It was not in his first mate's nature to sit at the bedside of an unconscious or semi-conscious person. To say he felt it was illogical was mild.

"I have been attending to both your business and my own, Captain," Spock informed him, reaching out to grasp his elbow when he started to slide. "I apologize for not visiting you sooner."

He clung to Spock's arm for balance. "Don't worry about it. I'd rather have the old girl running smooth than waste people's time keeping me company." His legs gave out and Spock caught his other arm, levering him back up against the bed. "Damn it."

Spock did not respond to this directly. "I am… glad to see you active."

"Trying my damnedest," Kirk said. Once again, he slid off the bed and this time forced his legs into submission. They shook violently but seemed to hold. "I have to assume you came for a reason other than to say hello to me. Not that I'm not enjoying our stimulating conversation."

Spock firmly grasped his elbow again. "I did have purposes behind my visit though I admit that one of them was to simply ensure myself of your recovery."

"Aw, sweet of you," Kirk teased. "I'd almost mistake that for love."

"I also wished to apologize for my hand in your injury," the Vulcan continued, ignoring the Captain's glibness. "My invasion of your mind created greater problems for you instead of helping. For that, I request your forgiveness."

He smiled reassuringly and tried taking a step forward. "No big deal, Spock. I mean, you saved me after all. A little hurt's a part of life."

"Saved you?" Spock echoed. "Captain, I could not reach you. The mind-meld did not work properly. You escaped under your own power."

But he hadn't. He stopped focusing on keeping his legs steady and ended up collapsing once more. This time, Spock was prepared and he barely fell at all. Someone had helped him escape, the one he had known merely as not _it_, and after much contemplation, he'd initially decided it had to have been Spock. No one else on the _Enterprise,_ to his knowledge had the ability to engage in such a battle. If Spock claimed to not have been able to assist him, then who was it? He had no doubt that person had saved not only his life but his sanity. Had that person not stepped it, he would be dwelling in an unpleasant blankness with the thing forever.

"Jim?"

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I just-- it wasn't you?"

Spock's mouth twitched slightly, as though to frown. "No, Captain, it was not me. Did you experience another form of mind invasion?"

But the voice had reminded him of Spock. He had gotten the sense of the Vulcan from it, both in speech patterns and in voice. It had sounded like Spock, behaved like Spock-- it had even had Spock's inflection when using his name. It had used words that he had expressed to Spock, certainly his turn of phrase about finding another option.

"I thought-- or maybe I just--" He shook his head again. "I must have imagined it. Strange."

"Perhaps you should lie down," Spock offered. "You seem disoriented."

"No, no, I'm fine. Just… surprised is all," he cleared his throat. "Sorry, you came to tell me things and I'm being difficult. Was there anything else?"

Spock's silence portrayed the lack of belief more than saying it to him. Gently, he pressed Kirk back on the bed before he spoke. "I came to request, once you are well enough reassume your duties, for leave. I received contact from the Vulcan colony and my elder self has fallen ill. I would like permission to go there and see him. He feels his time may be short and claims to have things to tell me."

"Soon as I'm back on my feet," Kirk assured him, half-heartedly. "If you speak to him, tell him I send my best wishes for a recovery."

"I will deliver your message," Spock said. "Do you require Doctor McCoy? You've grown very pale."

He shook his head. "Nah, just an odd moment."

He couldn't rationalize it out and became so vague in his speech patterns that Spock called Bones over anyway. Bones fussed, both at Spock for 'exciting' the Captain and at Kirk for, after Spock's revelation, 'trying to get up before being damn well ready.' Kirk gave him little attention, focused on trying to figure out what had happened. It had been bad enough dealing with the thing that had attacked him, with its contradictions and insubstantiality. To lose the certainty of a familiar presence in the experience shoved him back down the rabbit hole. He'd wanted confirmation or denial of the strangeness, something to assure him that most of it had occurred.

"It is weird, Bones," he told the Doctor that night. "I could've sworn Spock was in my head when that thing got me."

"Sure he was," McCoy grumbled, watching Kirk consume his dinner and munching on his own. "Gets into everybody's brain, damn hobgoblin."

"I mean really there."

"He certainly tried. Nearly killed you both in the process."

"I just--"

"Jim," McCoy interrupted. "Sometimes, you just have to thank whatever powers are out there for the good luck and stop worrying about the how."

"I guess," he said.

But he didn't agree.

* * *

I am hoping for Monday.


	3. Purgatory

Author's Note: This may be proof that group prayer and hope can actually lead to an outcome. This initially was about five hundred words of epilogue and has now become a full-fledged chapter. It is mostly what I wanted as well which is a plus.

I am completely obsessed with the idea of mind-melding but unable to watch the Original Series. Not because it isn't available, my uncle has the series on DVD and youtube has it as well, but because I refuse to watch Shatner for more than three minutes at a time. So, I've fantasized over it and this is what it's come to. Wow, that entire paragraph was vague.

I am considering tagging an epilogue onto this and if I do, it'll be up on Wednesday. Please remember to be liberal about my descriptions of things (especially Kirk's bed) and most of all

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Three: Purgatory

* * *

He sat in the captain's chair, slouched to the side, one leg propped up on his opposite knee, thinking. For weeks now, the whole situation had tickled at his mind. It had absorbed him while in the sick bay until Bones had finally given him small tasks to do to distract him. When those small things were not enough, and more of his time was spent on reverie than ever, Bones agreed to allow him to move to his room with mandatory visits to the sick bay three times daily. This gave him greater freedom in things to do but it also gave him more unsupervised time to ponder. More than once, he missed his check ups and had to deal with the repercussions and threats of being incarcerated once more.

Returning to full duty had given him plenty of distractions. Spock's departure and his own long absence had him mulling over reports and passed situations. By the time he actually caught up with everything, he realized that a lack of free time kept him from thinking about it. So from that point forward, he took double shifts, sleeping pills and started running the halls to distract himself. The problem with contemplating what happened was that he never came up with a real answer and that drove him crazy. While initially, he'd loathed the distractions he grew to need them in order to function. As long as he kept himself distracted, he could actually live.

Before Spock returned, he'd started to live like a machine. He'd wake up, work, eat, exercise and knock himself out again with pills. Sometimes, he didn't bother with the pills and just started back up with the work. Bones had, as a friend and not a doctor, suggested seeing a psychologist to talk over what happened but he had no interest. He'd reached a balance point in his life and though it was taking a toll on him physically, mentally he'd never felt as calm. Almost too calm, according to some of the people around him. So, he'd stop taking interest in those people and the people who agreed with those people and the people who agreed with them; this limited his social circle to the mute custodian and Bones, who didn't give a shit who or what he was interested in.

Now, sitting there, he found nothing to hold those thoughts a bay. The weeks of ignoring and strenuous physical activity left him, now, with even greater depths of thought. Staring out at space, he remembered it and what it had done to him and his crew. His stomach hurt with the idea that there was a power out there that could merely consider bringing them down and it would happen. Maybe it couldn't happen to him again, but what if it happened to those he loved? Not everyone had a legendary protector hovering around, waiting for them.

Or did they? Was it something else beyond his understanding that had saved him? He had thought he had known it but was it possible that it was some cosmic guardian angel, ready to protect him from other cosmic beings? Maybe everyone had one watching over them. Maybe there were creatures that would come to your rescue when you ended up in the worst of situations. But, of course, if that was true, he could think of plenty of his childhood incidences where he deserved such a rescue. It could be that these creatures only opposed creatures of equal but opposite forces of their own.

A tension induced headache started and he tried to stop thinking. There were reports to read, decisions to make and all sorts of things he could do. Admittedly, he was already several days ahead and with Spock returning to duty the next day, he would have less to do than usual in future weeks. Better to leave some of it off so that he would not be thinking double tomorrow. Of course, it was too early to take the sleep pills, especially now that Bones refused to give him anymore (something about abuse which he'd ignored while swallowing down a pair of them with a shot of whiskey), and he couldn't exercise while on duty. His foot started to twitch rapidly and he rubbed at his face. Considering his recent behavior, he couldn't even use conversation as a diversion.

Spock came onto the bridge moments later, greeting the people present-- lingering with Uhura a little longer than was appropriate-- and coming to reside near the Captain. He did not speak to Kirk but instead stood silently. Kirk wondered if he was waiting for a greeting so he gave him a head tilt. Spock did not seem to notice and he wasn't in the mood to give anymore. Nervous energy brimmed inside of him and tipped him into a reality that he did not like very much.

"Well, Mr. Spock, you have the bridge," he informed the Vulcan. "I'll be back in five."

He darted away, moving rapidly towards the lifts with no destination in mind. His pace picked up to a jog until he'd passed up the lifts and was trotting along the hallway. He passed all sorts of people, most of whom cringed away or started to whisper as he passed. He couldn't blame them really considering his irrational behavior as of late. Turning suddenly, he started back towards the bridge again, panting slightly. He hadn't slept for a while and had already exercised earlier in the day. Doing more was probably unwise but he could feel the unpleasantness ebbing as he moved. As he reached the lifts again, he made an impulsive decision and ducked into one, reaching out with one hand to punch a floor at random. The doors slid shut just as someone else slipped into the lift with him.

He refused to look at the person, praying that if he did not address him or her that the person would leave him alone. Privacy, something he craved at the moment, was near impossible for him to find. Between the continual presence of other beings in his life and his own thoughts, he hadn't been able to find the restful silence that he wanted. The last time he'd experienced it, ironically, had been in the strange dream about Iowa with it pretending to be a horse. And to think, he'd found the dream somewhat unpleasant at the time. He'd give anything to go back to it.

"Would you really?" he heard it and stiffened. "What does anything entail?"

"I didn't mean that," he hissed. "Leave me alone."

It was curled up on his shoulder, across the room and sliding over the other occupant's shoes. "No, you did mean it. What can I do for you Captain Kirk? I told you, I can stop the pain. I dislike it as much as you."

"Go. Away."

"As you wish," it replied. And then he was sitting inside the lift which had stopped moving. "You have other things to attend to anyway." It brushed his face, the walls, his hand.

He blinked at the white floor of the lift and at the closed door that did not provide him an expected exit. Something that was not it was standing very close to him. He could see its boots and pants from his position.

"The presence that invaded your mind," Spock said softly. "It was here."

Kirk swallowed loudly. "I get this feeling it's always around and sometimes, it lets people know it."

"How often does it come to you, Captain?"

A defensiveness overcame his judgment. "Why does it matter to you, Commander?" And then. "I thought I gave you the bridge."

"I passed the duty to Mr. Sulu in order to check on you and because," Spock replied evenly, not rising to Kirk's tone, "it is not benevolent, Jim, and it could be impairing your judgment. I need to know if you are fit. From what I am hearing--"

"Hearing?" he repeated, anger building.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Some members of the crew have informed me that your behavior has become increasingly erratic since--"

"Mr. Spock, I would appreciate it if you would not accept every rumor that you come across as evidence to my behaviors when you have not been here for nearly two months," he snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Spock would not let him approach the control panel. "I trust Nyota for she's never shown any inclination towards rumor mongering. She cares for you and your safety. She does not spread lies in order to gain position or power. And judging by your actions since I have returned, I can logically conclude her deductions are accurate. You are not yourself."

He swung at Spock without thinking. Had he been considering it, he would have realized that there was no way he could win; even at his peak, a fight between himself and a Vulcan would always end poorly for him. Spock easily avoided the punch and the one that followed it. Kirk attempted to grab the Vulcan, to hold him still so he could actually land a hit but missed completely. Then Spock made his move and he found himself pinned against the Vulcan, an arm around his neck. It was not tight, but it was controlling, cutting off his air minimally, forcing him to take tiny, controlled breaths.

"Jim, I do not wish to harm you but I will not allow you to take your anger out on me," Spock said, calm as ever.

He clawed at the arm which tightened a bit but not painfully. The overwhelming urge to escape faded slightly, letting him perceive the situation through a different point of view. He saw himself, worn, unkempt, closed off in comparison to himself a couple of months before, confident, reckless but in control. This was not the person he'd meant to be; he'd assured himself, when he finally left the infirmary, that the situation had not hurt him. He told himself again and again that he was okay. But now, he wondered if it was a lie meant to keep him from a complete break down. If it was, the worst part was that he'd been the only person fooled.

His frantic movements slowed and then ceased. Spock loosened his grip a bit and then, when the flailing did not continue, let go of him all together. He staggered away from the Vulcan then sank to the floor nearby, worn out emotionally and physically. Spock was looking at him, studying, calculating but he didn't care. Screw Spock, it, his unnamed savior, and everyone else in a million light-year radius. He was done.

"I've experienced that sudden violence allows for the catharsis of anger," Spock observed.

"Fuck you," he gasped with little venom. "And everyone else. Fuck." His head throbbed a steady beat. "Just… fuck."

Spock came to stand beside him and said nothing. He did not look down at him, or try to touch him; he simply towered over Kirk in silence. Kirk could see his shoes out of the corner of his eye, perfect, unmovable like their owner and felt the air suck out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe, or escape from this and now that it was all upon him, he realized he didn't give a shit who had saved him. That obsession had merely covered up a much deeper question and injury. Now, that wound had been left unattended, festered and was sickening him. Being aware of it did not heal it nor give him any idea as to how to start the healing. Instead, it drove a knife into another part of him, a part that had enjoyed being self-sufficient since his mother remarried. He couldn't breathe. His face was wet.

They stayed that way until his ragged gulps of air calmed to pants. The wetness of his face started to dry stickily and his throat ached. Spock eased himself down until he too was sitting and still said nothing. Something peaceful fell over the tiny area with no air, something Kirk could not define or properly appreciate. The hurts inflicted on him were raw, maybe not deadly anymore, but dripping and painful. He swallowed hard, his mouth like paper, dropping his head onto his knees. He didn't feel the lift jerk and move, nor hear the doors slide open.

"Jim," Spock said gently.

He let Spock help him to his feet but refused help walking. It was not as it had been when Spock had left and he still shook when he stood too long. The physical maladies had faded even if the emotional ones had stayed. His feet carried him after the Commander and he was careful not too meet the gaze of any of the passing crew members. His face was stiff now, probably red as well though he could not muster up the ability to be embarrassed. Instead, he limped behind his first mate to his quarters, childlike and unresisting. When Spock opened the door, Kirk immediately went to the bed and sat. It was warm, comfortable, reminiscent of his bed in Iowa with thick pillows and blankets; not standard issue but he preferred personalization. It gave under his weight, molding to his body, soothing physical aches.

"If you wish, I will take over your duties for the night, Captain," Spock said. "And longer if you need."

He nodded but didn't move from where he sat. A sudden bout of paralysis had overcome him. He doubted he could even lie down. The world around him had grown too thick to move through and he did not have any intention of forcing his way into it. Better to sit and allow it to pass him by until he had interest in making sense of it. He already knew that before he could do that, he had to fix whatever was screwed up inside of him and that was a mountain of its own. His fingers tightened on the edge of the bed at the thought of it.

"Rest, Jim," Spock spoke softly. "We will speak more on this later when you've had time to regain control." Kirk nodded again, wondering how long he had before the paralysis traveled up to his neck as well. Spock had already gone back to the door. "And, my elder self asked me to give you this message as soon as I could. He says that he apologizes but option c was the best he could do. This means nothing to me but he said you would understand. I will see you in twelve hours, Captain."

He left before Kirk really processed it.

* * *

There had been, since the incident, a thin level between sleep and wakefulness for him. He could tell when he was about to pass into it but it felt as though he never actually slept. His eyes would shut and then open and hours would have passed instead of seconds. Sleep as he had known it, a period restfulness dotted with strange, sometimes unpleasant, vision, no longer existed. It was less palpable than ghost stories and less real than faerie tales. He did not look forward to it after a long day, even with the sleeping aids Bones had given him and now denied him. The only difference between his state of sleep and sleep with the pills was that the latter made him feel heavy and disconnected.

The problem lay in that his mind never refreshed. His body recovered a bit of its strength while his mind never shut down, moving straight from one day to the next without ever feeling the difference. Sometimes, he would fall asleep in mid-thought and wake up hours later to pick up just as he'd left off with no pause. He knew people who would be glad about this; it would be, for them, like putting a bookmark on a page or leaving a program running on a terminal. But for him, it meant over processing, over thinking and, since the incident, obsession.

This was the way it happened when he'd finally managed to lie down in his bed. One moment, he was trying to wrap his mind around Spock Prime's comment then seemingly three seconds later, he was finishing the thought. But the problem was, nearly all of his twelve allotted hours had passed him by. He sat up, fully dressed still, blankets wrapped around his waist and pillows lying scattered feeling as though he'd not slept at all. His body had stiffened, admittedly, and his throat felt sorer than it had before. In his mind, nothing had changed. He still could not connect with the idea of the elder Spock being his protector. That bond had been severed; or so he had thought. His Spock, in an attempt to ease his suffering, had made it so those memories were like pictures instead of experiences. In the process, he had, or so Kirk had been told, broken the last bit of mental connection between himself and the other-dimensional Spock. Now, it seemed obvious that his Spock had been wrong. There was no way that the other Spock could have initiated a mind-meld from so far away and so instantaneously when Kirk was about to seal the deal with the devil.

He took a shower, and thought about it, got out of the shower and thought about it. Redressing in clean clothing, he thought about it some more and when Spock entered, he'd propped himself up against the wall behind his bed, his pillows stacked in his lap, blankets wrapped around his shoulders, still thinking about it. The thinking had progressed to questioning how it had happened, to the nature of the bond and onwards, drawing his mind into frenzied circles. Knowing the truth, something he had wanted for weeks, was almost worse than not knowing. He'd thought identifying his savior would allow him to come to terms with it all but it had not. It had brought about more confusion, emotional and mental.

"Maybe you can tell me, Spock," he said before the Vulcan could speak. "I can't figure it out. How the fuck does someone lay down his life for someone he barely knows?"

"I cannot give an accurate answer unless I know how you are approaching the question," Spock responded. "Have you slept?"

"I didn't even ask you how he was doing," Kirk murmured. "I should've asked how he was doing. Seems only fair considering everything that's happened. How is he?"

"How is who?"

"Your other self-- Old Spock," he clarified. "How is he?"

"As well as to be expected within the parameters of his injury," Spock answered. "He's been dealt a severe mental injury and he is not young. It has left him very weak, physically. Those attending him think he will pull through but he will not be the same. Even when I spoke with him, he seemed… distant."

Kirk swallowed loudly. "He's not dying though?"

"Not immediately though his lifespan has been limited. He says he cannot be certain what has caused it and this has restricted the options he has for treatment. I believe he lies but felt it unwise to push the matter. If he--"

It burst out of him finally. "He was the one who saved me, Spock. It was him. The message he had you deliver was something he said-- well, no, not really said-- when we were-- in my head or out of my head. Or…" He didn't have the right words to describe it.

"Jim, there's no way he could've saved you," Spock began.

"It was him," Kirk insisted. "I couldn't have saved myself. I owed it my life, or brain, or soul, or whatever. I promised it that in exchange for everyone and the ship. Then it tried to take me and it couldn't touch me and suddenly, he was there saying we had some sort of bond which it couldn't break."

Spock shook his head. "It's not possible. Even if there was the remnant of a link between the two of you, it would have been sufficiently laid to rest after--" He didn't finish it and Kirk tried to speak again but he overrode him. "It does not make sense."

"I know," Kirk said, miserably. "And now he's dying because of it."

"We all die. It's a natural part of life. You cannot take the blame--"

"If I hadn't have made the deal with that whatever, he'd be fine. I thought I was doing the right thing, coming to the rescue. I didn't care about what happened to me, Spock, if I thought I could save everyone else's lives in the process but I-- it just--" He was shaking, fine tremors running through his entire body.

"I do not understand," Spock said.

"I made a choice," Kirk whispered. "And now someone else has paid to get me out of it."

"What choice, Jim?" Spock asked. "I do not know what situation you are referring to."

He was so tired of the constant buzzing confusion. Every time he thought he couldn't feel anymore, he got another overwhelming surge of feelings. Letting out a trembling sigh, he told Spock everything from the moment he awoke on the planet up to where he woke up in the sick bay. He spared no detail, not even the part about seeing his mother and his stepfather. Even if Spock did not comfort well, he did listen attentively, not interrupting or questioning; he had seated himself an uncomfortable chair that had come with the quarters. His eyes never left Kirk.

"That is… informative," he said at the end.

Kirk was glad he had the lights dimmed so the Vulcan could not see his red face. "You don't believe me."

"It is not that I do not believe you, Jim," Spock said, gentle like he had been in the elevator. "Have you considered that this dead place may have been an illusion to begin with? That it is possible this being was trying to get to you from the start, using what it knew about you as your weakness?"

He had not considered it and such a thought added a whole new dimension to his turmoil. If this could have been avoided all together, then he'd senselessly risked countless lives instead of saving them. His mind shut it out almost immediately; he couldn't bear to think of it. "I couldn't take the chance that it was the truth. You don't understand. There was a difference between being there and being in the other place. I knew that I was in my head when I was in Iowa and when it tried to take me, I was in the other place. But the planet, where it kept its… collection, that was real; sometimes more like reality for me than being here is."

"I see," Spock said. "You are right. I do not understand."

"I don't know how to say it better."

"I see." Spock had his hands folded in his lap. The silence that fell between them was not pleasant, though not unbearable. "It would explain his weakness, if he fought this thing. I still do not understand his connection to you but traveling between timelines has not fully been explored. It is possible his connection with his Kirk transferred to you when he came in here. He has not hid his…" He struggled with words. "…attachment to you. I can neither confirm nor deny your own experience. If you are convinced of the validity-- with the knowledge I have gained through you and others-- I will accept it until I find something that points otherwise." Kirk didn't say anything. "You are my friend, Jim. No matter what happens, I will do anything in my power to help you." When Kirk was still silent, he said, "And right now, that includes giving you time to truly recover."

He stayed there with Kirk for another couple of hours, simply sitting. Having someone there, even in the strange silence he felt he ought to fill, was a comfort. He did not want to be alone in this room or alone anywhere. An actual physical presence that intended him no harm-- and as a bonus, claimed to have what was best for him in mind-- was better than the sleeping pills. The dozing he did in that time was the most restful he had in weeks. He jerked awake as Spock left and was replaced by Bones who had brought food and a bottle of whiskey.

The next week or so continued like that. He was never alone. If Spock was not there, he sent someone else Kirk was comfortable with to keep him entertained. He and Sulu would get food together. Chekov would bring chess-- an old, old version that had once belonged to his great to the umpteenth grandfather, kept in a battered cardboard box-- and he would lose horribly. Uhura would drop in with a book or music or news and he would go out of his way not to insult her. When Spock came, he would often fall into true sleep, exhausted unconsciousness, and wake up after the Vulcan had been replaced by Bones. He did not sleep in front of the others if he could avoid it.

It was during one of his half-awake times, the period before Spock or Bones came, before he felt like he could truly pass into the world of dreams when something important happened. He was playing a game of gin rummy with Uhura and losing badly. The cards kept warping in front of his eyes, largely due to the fact that he had to keep them from crossing. Uhura must've noticed because, after he had to be reminded to pull a card from the deck the sixth time, she placed her cards down next to the discard pile.

"Huh?"

"Kirk, what happened to you? Really?" she asked, blunt as he'd been the first day he'd met her. "Spock won't tell any of us. He says you'll tell us when you're ready but I wanted to ask anyway."

"Spock's right," he said, not catching her eye. "Listen, it's nothing personal. I--"

She picked up her cards again. "Don't worry about it."

"Uhura--"

"Really," then his eyes met hers and saw that she was not upset, "just know that we'll listen to you if you need to talk to someone about it. I'm not half bad at the whole listening stuff. Apparently, it's my job." He didn't tell her how good it felt to hear someone say that.

He didn't notice he was getting better until the day he woke up alone and was glad about it. It was not the dark gladness that he associated with private suffering and being misunderstood. Solitude was the name he attached to it, and he tentatively enjoyed it as he showered. As the day progressed and he got one visitor, Chekov, who enjoyed their daily chess game (and he enjoyed it more now that he lost with flair), he did not find himself dwelling on what had happened. During the hours of solitude, he read the books Uhura brought him, listened to music, caught up on work he'd missed. He even emerged on his own accord to hunt down a sandwich so when Sulu came, after Chekov had left with yet another win, he merely went with him as company.

"I considered your question," Spock said to him that night. "And have come up with a question in turn."

"What question?" he mumbled, lying on his stomach, half-dreaming.

"Do you know every worker on this ship?" Spock asked, which was not an answer.

Kirk blinked. "I asked you that?"

"No, I am directing it at you."

"Kinda, I've seen all the names." He yawned. "Probably met them all once. That's a lot of people, Spock."

"Yet, on the being's planet, you agreed to give up your freedom so that they could live?"

"Of course," he said, now feeling more awake. "Of course. I'm the Captain. They are under my care. I don't--"

"I am not questioning your actions, Jim," Spock soothed. "I am merely saying, if you would so easily lay your life down for them, why does it surprise you that my elder self, who has seen your mind and feels love for it, would lay his life down for you?"

* * *

See you Wednesday for the conclusion.


	4. Epilogue: Somewhere in Between

Author's Note: Perhaps, not the ending that many people expected or wanted. I am not sure where it came from but I'm relatively content with it, seeing as I had no idea where to go before seeing the movie again yesterday. I'd like to thank everyone for their support with this story. It's gotten me through a fairly horrific class and another torturously boring one.

As always, forgive the typos/grammar/general lack of knowledge. In addition, ignore the pilfered line in the end. It's what came out when I was finishing and well… it seems to work. But most of all, please enjoy!

* * *

Epilogue: Somewhere in Between

* * *

He didn't know what to say to Spock Prime so he never ended up contacting him. After long moments of pondering, he'd discovered that it wasn't that he didn't want to talk to him; it was just nothing he could say seemed to be enough. Thank you was disturbingly flat considering all that happened and why had already been answered for him. Anything else, trivial questions, or jokes or anything that might lighten their involvement made him feel superficial. He tried to formulate a speech not of gratitude or question or light hearted joking but found that he did not have words for that. The politician and negotiator were not the two strong points of his character. That was why he had people like Spock around.

And so time passed him by and he gradually got so caught up in his other troubles that he forgot to think of it all together. It would bite him, every now and again just before he fell into the vestiges of sleep, but it would be gone by morning after he showered. In fact, it did not fully hit him until late in the year when they were sent with basic necessities to the Vulcan Colony. It had been a hard year for the new Vulcan planet and the Federation was attempting to supplement a weak harvest and lack of other niceties. When Kirk had asked why they chose the _Enterprise_, respectful but belligerent all at once, they'd informed him because they said so; and then, they'd supplemented it with Spock's presence and because it was a break from the _Enterprise'_s normally arduous journeys.

At that point, guilt started to chew at him. As the ship was loaded, he considered everything he should have said and didn't say and then how he'd never really known what those things were anyway. The trip took relatively no time at all, barely five minutes, and soon he found himself beaming down to the planet with a perfectly blank mind and a rolling stomach. Even though he was about to need something to say, I'm sorry for the trouble, thanks for everything, seemed more inappropriate than ever.

He, Spock and Sulu materialized at the base slower than he was used to. The delegation of surviving council members were waiting with Vulcan patience, unsmiling but not displeased. Spock stepped forward, greeting them all traditionally and launched immediately into a discussion about how the items were to be unloaded and where they should be placed. Sulu followed him but Kirk hung back, uncertain, eyes flickering from one passive face to another, searching for the one he expected. Two scans over proved that Spock Prime was not amongst those there. The nervous vice that had trapped him loosened and he strode off the pad with a renewed confidence.

The next few hours were spent organizing and moving the vast amounts of crates off of the ship and into the storage units the Vulcans had set aside for just this. Kirk was helping organize the transition period from the ship to the ground allowing Spock to handle the actual transportation to storage. It was going surprisingly smooth, he surmised as another load came down and he helped a crew of ensigns and Vulcans alike move the boxes off the pad so the next shipment could arrive. There had been no mishaps, injuries or, so far, items that should have arrived but hadn't or vice versa.

He piled his crate in the corner just as another stack was beamed down. The load materialized and he jogged up the stairs to help move it off. This load seemed a bit less steady than the rest. His instinct was to get it down and away as quick as possible and he snatched up the nearest stack. Just as he got it settled into his arms, the stack next to it began to sway dangerously. He tried to move quickly, trying to get out of range of the falling debris and in the process completely forgot about the stairs. Everything went flying out of his arms and he followed it down, realizing that this was going to hurt-- possibly a lot-- and that he was an idiot for moving so--

Someone grabbed him, stopped him and got him on his feet in a manner of seconds. The boxes lay scattered around him, some broken open and spilling medical supplies on the ground. His savior released him and with him, looked at the destruction. His elderly face looked drawn, as though he'd been sick, and he had a cane in his one hand. However, there was a distinct air of amusement about him.

"I am assuming you are uninjured, Captain," he said, leaning heavily on the cane.

"Thanks to you," Kirk managed, hoping to convey double meaning. "You okay?"

He nodded, raising an eyebrow as an ensign took a tumble trying to balance the other stack of boxes. "Quite well, though feeling my years in a way I never have before. It was inevitable, of course, though it came sooner than I expected." A very small smile decorated his lips. "I see option c has been treating you well."

"Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, it has." And he allowed himself to meet the Vulcan's eyes. "Thanks fo--"

"Jim, the storage area has been filled to maximum capacity. These containers will need to be transferred to another part of the colony," Spock, his Spock said, coming up to the two of them. "Pardon my interruption, Ambassador, I must borrow the Captain."

Spock Prime broke off the gaze. "Of course, Commander, my work with the Captain is done." Then he said to Kirk, "Live long and prosper, Jim."

Kirk watched him leave as he followed his Spock further into the colony, seeing how he limped and how the straight back hunched a bit. He recalled the hollowed features and the tiredness in the calm, intelligent eyes. Next came the smile and the words and the approval he had sensed from the Vulcan from another dimension who had known another him and had been willing to give anything up for that Kirk and therefore, for him as well. He changed his direction, striding quickly to where Spock Prime was moving slowly and blocked off his path.

"Next time," he said quickly. "Next time, let me figure out option c, okay?"

Spock Prime stopped, resting his free hand on top of the can clutching the cane. There was something in his face that Kirk did not know. "As you wish, Jim." He moved around him. "As you wish."


End file.
